


The Pact

by afteriwake



Series: Making It On Our Own [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Amy Is Not Okay, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Drinking & Talking, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Male-Female Friendship, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pre-Relationship, Promises, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Teen Amy, Teen Sherlock, Underage Drinking, Unhappy Amy, Unhappy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:54:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9563957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: Sherlock meets Amy at a party at her home, where he finds himself encountering a kindred spirit.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GlowingMechanicalHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlowingMechanicalHeart/gifts).



> So this is a combination belated Christmas gift/cheer-up fic for **ladyofhimring** that is based on a prompt from **LadyEmmalineWrites1812** of " _Pondlock, Striped socks_." I know this one is a bit depressing but the rest of the series will get better, I promise.

“Are you really gonna leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?”

Sherlock looked over at the girl in front of him. He hadn’t wanted to come to this stupid party, but he had to get out of the house for a while. It was uncomfortable again. It always seemed to be uncomfortable now, and he didn’t know _why_. He just knew if there was a party there would be food and he’d have a chance at maybe getting some...other things...too. But other than the food it had been a bust and there was no point in staying. The music was too loud and grating on his ears, and looking at everyone in their silly costumes was getting on his nerves.

And now his exit was being blocked by a girl he vaguely recognized in a witch get-up with green makeup smeared on her face, a wart on her nose and hideous neon green and black striped socks.

“What question would that be?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Where I got the socks,” she said.

He blinked. She gave him a smile and then grabbed his hand, pulling him back into the party and towards a quieter part of the house, away from all the noise. Up the stairs, past a strange door that he thought, just for a brief moment, shouldn’t be there, and then to a room at the end of the hall. She let go of his hand momentarily to open the door for them and then grabbed it again to pull him in. “Who are you?” he asked, giving her a curious look.

She went over to the dresser in the room as he looked around. It was definitely the room of a girl, he realized. Someone with a vivid imagination; there was art on the walls, drawn by someone with burgeoning skill. There was also dolls made of various materials, of a young girl and a man in a blue shirt and blue pants. Curious. Then he felt something hit him in the head and he looked down to see balled up neon pink and black striped sock. He bent down and picked them up, and when he looked up he saw the witch was holding up a bottle of whiskey that was about half empty. “You were hoping for something more like this?”

“It’ll do,” Sherlock said. She moved to the bed and sat on it, and he joined her after a moment. “This must be your home.”

The witch nodded. “Amy Pond. You’re Sherlock, aren’t you? Sherlock Holmes?”

He nodded. “Yes.” She handed him the bottle and he unscrewed it to take a sip. Not his usual poison of choice, but it would do. 

“You don’t go to school around here,” she said.

He shook his head. “I’m carted away to boarding schools,” he replied before handing her the bottle and watching her take a sip. “I recently got expelled for yet another set of serious infractions.”

“Oooh, bad boy,” she said. “What did you do?”

“Found out the headmaster had cheated on his wife with the French teacher and the French teacher was planning on killing the headmaster to keep their homosexual affair a secret before he was sacked,” Sherlock said. “I exposed the entire thing and stopped a murder but it was leaked to the press, causing humiliation. Instead of being grateful I was tossed out of the school.”

Amy handed him back the liquor and pursed her lips. “That sounds like a rather shite reason to be expelled.”

“Well, the headmaster had about nine hundred million reasons to not want his dirty little secret to come out.” He took a drink. “His soon-to-be ex-wife is a millionaire worth £900 million when you add up all her investments and property and whatnot. He just couldn’t control himself. Blew it all on an impulse.” 

“So you’re stuck here in Leadworth for a bit?” she asked as he passed back the bottle.

Sherlock shrugged. “My mother supposes she can teach me herself. She’s a genius, after all. My father wants to send me elsewhere. My brother has his own opinions. I frankly don’t care.” He laid down on her bed. “If I had my way, I’d say to hell with them all, run off and become a concert violinist.”

“Could be an interesting life,” Amy said, turning so she was facing him. “Could be good to just chuck it all and run away.”

“Would you?” he asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said with a nod. She gestured with the bottle. “I’m here all by myself all the time. My aunt doesn’t give a shite about me, not really. I’d want to run away, far away. I just don’t know what I’d do with myself.”

“Art,” he said, pointing to her wall. “You have talent.”

“Good of you to notice,” she said with a smile. She had some more whiskey. “Let’s make a pact. It gets rough, for you or for me, we run away together. We just say fuck it all and we _go_. But we be smart about it. No drugs.” Sherlock opened his mouth and she pointed to his arm. “I’m not blind.” He closed it again. “No drugs, no drink. We be smart and we make it on our own. Agreed?”

He mulled it over and then offered her his hand, which she shook. “Agreed.”


End file.
